


I will not ask you where you came from / I will not ask you, neither should you

by Pollys_hymnia



Series: Romancing the (Singing) Stone [3]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Because Maedhros is (literally) dirty, Characters Writing Fanfiction, Crack, Crack and Angst, Egalmoth isn't allowed to write anymore Glorthelion, Extract from Egalmoth's romance novel about Thingol/Maedhros, Grieving Maedhros, I'm Sorry, M/M, Or Russingon, Pity Sex, Post-Nirnaeth Arnoediad, Sad Thingol, So he writes this, Sort Of, Strange Meetings, There's a bath scene too, Vague mention of Fingon's (canonical) death in the Nirnaeth, What happens in Doriath stays in Doriath, inappropriate use of butter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-10-31 05:53:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17843681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pollys_hymnia/pseuds/Pollys_hymnia
Summary: Egalmoth, distraught that his creative avenues have been severely limited by royal decree, finds yet another new story to write.  More strange rumors reach his ears and he decides to tell the tale of a meeting between Thingol and Maedhros.  Maedhros is freshly come from the Nirnaeth, a broken shadow of himself.  He strays into the forest of Neldoreth and looks terrible enough that Thingol takes pity on him instead of killing him on sight.  They talk a while but only in abstract terms and neither reveals his identity to the other, their hurts are still too fresh and unhealed to say more.  However, they take some comfort in each other and forget their troubles for a little while.





	I will not ask you where you came from / I will not ask you, neither should you

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from a Hozier song, full lyrics are at the end. I listened to the album on repeat while I wrote this in one sitting. Then I asked myself, what in the heck have I just written? Well, I'm still not exactly sure but I hope you enjoy it? Besides, blame Egalmoth. He's the over dramatic one. Thank you [actuallyfeanor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/actuallyfeanor) for the inspiration.

Egalmoth had been forbidden by Turgon to write any further stories about him and his latest manuscript had been confiscated.  He had been implored by Duilin to please stop writing about Glorfindel, Ecthelion, or anyone else they saw on a daily basis.  ‘And for Eru’s sake do NOT write about me,’ Duilin had added for good measure. 

Egalmoth was dejected.  If it wasn’t enough to be brought before the king and threatened dramatically with bludgeoning by the Staff of Doom, now his friends were discouraging him too.  Penlod, at least, remained supportive even when Egalmoth transitioned from dejected to positively sulky. 

“I heard a strange rumor the other day that you might be interested in,” Penlod was saying as they were both reclined together on Egalmoth’s settee. 

“I’m not interested in any rumors,” Egalmoth grumbled and pulled Penlod’s arms tighter around his waist.

“I hate to see you like this, you should write something again, I know how happy it makes you.  We just need to find you the right subjects.  For example, have you ever considered writing about yourself? And me?”

Egalmoth scoffed disbelievingly.

Penlod frowned, “Alright, well, something else… are you sure you don’t want to hear the rumor I heard? It is truly… interesting.”

Egalmoth sighed resignedly, “Fine.”

Penlod brushed Egalmoth’s hair back from his forehead and placed a kiss on the top of his head, “It concerns Thingol, so you might find that, at least, inspirational.  Thingol and Maedhros.”

“What about them?” Egalmoth asked, suddenly becoming intrigued.

“Ah, well, it seems they met under strange circumstances after the Nirnaeth.  They talked a while and found they had much in common.  And, unwilling to speak to closely of hurts that were still too fresh, they unknowingly engaged in a liaison of sorts.”

“Liaison of sorts?”

“They had sex,” Penlod clarified.

Egalmoth closed his eyes, beginning to paint this picture in his mind, “Hmmmmm.”

“I thought you would like that, and I doubt very much Turgon would be unhappy if you decided to expound upon it.  It would be a nice change, after all, from having to hear of the many affairs of Maedhros and his brother.”

“Oh, but what affairs, I longed to write of Maedhros and Fingon’s love while they both still lived, but I valued too well my head remaining attached to my body.  It’s too late for that now, anyway,” he sighed wistfully.

“So perhaps write of Maedhros and Thingol’s affair instead?” Penlod pressed.

“Perhaps.”

 

This is the story, as Egalmoth came to write it:

 

Tears unnumbered, Maedhros would have shed, if he were able.  He did shed all his tears, but counted each one as they fell to the battle-trampled earth.  He had lost so much that day, and everything that mattered most to him.  Friends, family, love.  What more could Morgoth possibly take?  What did he have left to lose?

His eyes dry at last, his muscles weary, his heart numb, Maedhros slowly made his way in the direction of Ossiriand.  The devastation he left behind persisted, ingrained into his mind, and he saw the endless expansive of broken bodies each time he closed his eyes.  This alone would be enough, perhaps, to explain what happened next.  That he strayed, unbeknownst to him, into the forest of Neldoreth. 

Strange are the paths of that forest and heavy is the shadow under the leaves.  The shadow on his mind hung the greater, and Maedhros wandered deeper into the wood and dared to challenge the Girdle of Melian.  He could not hope to emerge again, once lost, but he cared not.  When his last strength had spent itself, he collapsed under a tall ash tree and fell into a dark and dreamless sleep.

 

Sleep brought him no comfort and he rose again, wishing he had passed instead from sleep to death.  Still, his feet moved beneath him and though he cared not to nourish his body, his strength was still very great.  He marched on heedlessly toward the dark heart of the forest.  The more Melian’s power numbed his mind and heart, the less he felt his pain and so pursued that which any wiser man would have fled.  If death were not granted to him, oblivion at least would quiet the consuming sorrow in his heart.

How long he wandered, he could not afterward say.  How he arrived at a small open meadow into the harsh sunlight, he also could not tell.  He squinted reflexively and brought his arm across his face to shield himself from the intrusive light. 

 Maedhros was espied this way from the other side of the clearing by one he did not know.  He was not the only one who had sought the solitude of the forest in his sorrow.  A strange fate had brought them together, guided perhaps by the essential instinct for solace.

News of the battle had reached Doriath, though few of its soldiers had fought in it.  Still, Thingol's heart ached for that loss and other losses besides—in chief the disappearance of his daughter.  Though Luthien may have lived again, he knew it was for a short time only and their fates would soon be irrevocably sundered. 

Away from such thoughts Thingol was drawn as he noticed the russet-haired man stumble out from underneath the forest eaves.  Thingol leapt to his feet, hand flying swifter than the eye to his knife.  Yet when he looked on the man’s countenance, he stopped.  Such anguish was written there as plain to read as any other feature of his finely shaped face.  And his heart was filled with pity.  Here was one who had lost as least as much as he himself had lost.

“Hail, stranger,” Thingol called and held his hand up, palm out in token of peace, “whither are you wandering?”

Maedhros looked up as one stunned.  He stopped abruptly and stared at the tall figure before him.  It was a man, he marked, shining like a silver star come down to earth, illumined by the brightness of the noontime sun.  It took him a moment before he could remember himself and speak again, “Hail,” he paused yet again, attempting to shake himself out of his own bewilderment, “Where am I? I was making for Ossiriand.”

“You are far astray, and come from battle I see.  Are you hurt?  How did you pass this far into the Hidden Kingdom, for verily into Doriath you are come.”

“Doriath,” Maedhros repeated in unbelief.

“Yes, are you hurt?” Thingol himself repeated in growing concern.       

Maedhros looked down at his own tall form as though uncertain how to answer, “I have taken only slight wound to the body, more deadly is the wound to the heart.”

“A grievous wound to suffer indeed.  Come, sit.  You are weary, as I am.  If you are an enemy to the One Enemy, then let us be friends today.”

Maedhros nodded and carelessly cast himself down on the earth next to Thingol.  He buried his face in his hands, still coated with layers of dried blood, dirt, and tears.

Thingol offered him some water from a skin he had brought with him, but when this was refused, he offered wine instead.  Maedhros smelled the fragrant bouquet and the promise of mind-numbing alcohol and took a long drink.   

“You should take some water too, and here, have some bread with butter.”

Maedhros took both this time, with resignation, and went through the motions of eating and drinking.  Thingol watched him carefully, marking the manner of his speech and his armor.  There was a warning in his heart against this man, but for all he had been through he found he did not care to heed it. 

Maedhros remembered himself enough now to mutter a simulacrum of gratitude, “Thank you.”

Thingol nodded, “Wherever you are going, cannot be as bad as wherever you have been.”

“It matters not.  None of it matters.  We have lost everything,” his head fell once more into his hands but this time he pushed them back and smoothed his wild hair out of his face.  Thingol watched the arc of his hands—one gloved and gilt, one flesh.  And his hair, though he could tell it had once been bright as fire, now was overlaid with dirt and grime and seemed more umber than russet.  Burnt umber, the color of dry barren hills, crumbling in the withering north wind.

Maedhros turned his gaze directly toward Thingol’s eyes for the first time, Thingol felt the power of it immediately, though much diminished, “And what of you?  For you too, have lost much, I deem.”

“Lost, and losing both.  The more slowly, the more cruel,” Thingol himself drank from the wineskin and offered it once more to his guest, “let us take no more thought of the past that haunts us both, perhaps we can think instead on our succor.”

Maedhros laughed harshly and the sound grated on Thingol’s ears, “There can be no succor, no comfort.  Though I walk among the world of the living again, still I am like the dead.”

Thingol closed the space between them with his arm and softly placed one finger against Maedhros’s ruddy lips, “It is said by some, that even those who die, can live again.”

Maedhros was silent after that, contemplating his words.  Here truly was one fair and beautiful, strong and, he could sense, terrible in his wrath.  His sorrow was all the more touching.  Maedhros looked into Thingol’s gray eyes again and saw the memory of stars shining unblemished in the fearless night.  In the first night.  His beauty was so different from that he had always known before, from that which he had lost.  Old, yet ageless, with the aura of perpetual youth.  Slight color began to return to Maedhros’s face that had only been the mask of death.

Thingol smiled faintly, perceiving that perhaps the worst was over for his new found friend.  Neither ventured to speak though.  For some while, they passed the wine back and forth, taking thought now for what was to come instead of what had already come to pass.

 

Thingol did not feel any particular need to return to Menegroth that night as the sun began to set.  He had often wandered in the woods alone of late, and those who knew him well knew better than to seek him out at such times.  Maedhros was likewise not inclined to do anything but remain where they still sat together.  Caked in dirt and old blood as he was, he looked rather like he had been sculpted out of stone from the naked earth.

Thingol broke their most recent silence with an ironic laugh, “I realize I have been a poor host, though I have offered you food and drink, you would perhaps benefit the most from a bath.”

Maedhros looked over at him strangely, “A bath?” he formed the words with his mouth in such a way that they felt unfamiliar, like the memory of a dream from another life.

Thingol rose to his full height and offered his hand to Maedhros, “Yes, you look terrible.  Less terrible than when you arrived, but perhaps washing yourself will refresh you yet more.”

Maedhros looked up at him skeptically now but took Thingol’s offered hand with his left and rose to his feet.  Maedhros somehow was surprised he was still looking up into Thingol’s face even after he too had stood up to his full height.  Thingol was about a hand’s breadth taller than him.  Maedhros was unused to craning his neck upwards.

Thingol used Maedhros’s momentary distraction to guide him back into the forest toward a nearby pool of water.  When Maedhros stood at the edge of the pool and made no move, Thingol held up his hands, “Allow me?”  Maedhros nodded his consent.

Thingol stripped Maedhros out of his filthy armor and piled it into a neat stack next to a rock outcropping overlooking the pool. 

When Maedhros was clad in nothing but a simple loincloth, he stepped into the pool, insensitive to the cool bite of its waters.  Thingol sat on the rock and watched. 

Maedhros disappeared under the surface, scrubbing himself methodically with his hands, flesh and prosthetic.  He emerged several shades brighter, skin resuming its milky pale hue and hair again aflame.  Thingol watched the metamorphosis with suspended disbelief, wondering just what kind of creature he had found astray in his land.  If he looked like this now, what had he looked like in his youth?  Thingol felt a warmth enter the depth of his being, the tinge of desire in chest.

As though he could feel the growing shift of sensation inside Thingol, Maedhros cast a glance at him over his shoulder.  He was aware, vaguely, of the strangeness of it all but did not trouble himself over it.  Maybe this is what he needed.  Maybe this would help him truly forget.

He climbed out of the pool and cast the last of his coverings aside and stood naked before Thingol.  Thingol looked up at him, eyes darkening further with desire.  With only a moment’s hesitation he too stood, and knowing wordlessly what had passed between them, began to remove his gray cloak.  He let it fall from his shoulders, then spread it over the open ground.  Thingol then took care to remove the simple tunic and leggings he had chosen to wear while walking the forest.  He set them down next to Maedhros’s discarded armor.  Maedhros watched with absorbed attention as Thingol gracefully lay down on his cloak, fully bare. 

It was an invitation, Maedhros knew, and it was accepted without argument.  Maedhros lay down alongside Thingol’s long body, close but not yet touching.  By now the moon had arisen and Maedhros allowed himself to admire how it brought out the silver-white sheen of Thingol’s hair and the pale glow of his clear, smooth skin.  It was Maedhros now who closed the gap between them and gently touched Thingol’s lip with the tip of his finger, as though trying to reassure himself that this vision was in fact real.

Thingol forgot himself, and all his troubles, closing his eyes and letting himself feel the acute softness of Maedhros’s touch.  It was chaste now, but held the promise of more to come.  While his eyes were still closed, Thingol felt next the brush of lips against his jaw and then the press of lips to his lips.  Their kiss was slow and searching, building warmth gradually between them.  Thingol sat up slightly and reached for Maedhros to draw him nearer, tipping their bare chests together. To feel the pleasure of skin on skin. 

The latent passion that slept always just below the surface of Maedhros’s mind was awakened.  And the fire he was known for was kindled.  At the feeling of flesh on flesh, he pushed Thingol down and climbed atop him, seeking yet more and more contact. 

Thingol yielded to him willingly, and forgot one more care each time Maedhros’s hands traced the lines of his body.  His hips rose pleadingly as his hunger grew, and each touch sparked the desire for more.

Maedhros kissed him passionately, full of the same need, and cast a glance around in consideration.  He then propped himself up to search Thingol’s eyes, “How?”

Thingol returned his gaze and, understanding, reached down into the pocket of the cloak they were laying on together.  He produced the remains of the pat of butter, in leaf wrapping, that they had shared with their bread.  Maedhros looked at it incredulously for a moment, “Butter?” he would have laughed, if he had been able.

“I’ve used stranger,” Thingol confessed.  He paused, pushing beyond the absurdness of it, “and I need you.”

The last statement was enough to convince Maedhros and he took two fingers worth of the soft, creamy butter.  It began to melt as soon as he touched it. 

Maedhros needed no further instruction from then on.  

 

After they had made love, they grew still once more.  Thingol kept his eyes closed to hold his consciousness at bay as long as possible.  Maedhros collapsed down onto Thingol’s chest and marked only the sounds of his slowing breaths and beating heart. 

At last, Thingol broke the tranquil silence, “I will not ask you were you came from, neither should you.  We both needed this, somehow, for whatever happens next.”

Maedhros rolled over onto his back and looked up at the stars suspended overhead, “For whatever happens next.”

**Author's Note:**

> Like Real People Do  
> by Hozier
> 
> I had a thought, dear  
> However scary  
> About that night  
> The bugs and the dirt  
> Why were you digging?  
> What did you bury  
> Before those hands pulled me  
> From the earth?
> 
> I will not ask you where you came from  
> I will not ask you, neither should you
> 
> Honey just put your sweet lips on my lips  
> We should just kiss like real people do
> 
> I knew that look dear  
> Eyes always seeking  
> Was there in someone  
> That dug long ago  
> So I will not ask you  
> Why you were creeping  
> In some sad way I already know  
> So I will not ask you where you came from  
> I will not ask you, neither would you...


End file.
